


Come

by draculard



Series: Pellaeon/Thrawn 30 Day Ficlets [23]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Doppelganger, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Secret Crush, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Tentacle Dick, Wroonians (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26592268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Pellaeon's the type of guy who once had a girl in every port, so he understands that sometimes you pick up strange things on shore leave.This, though? This is just ... really pushing it.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Series: Pellaeon/Thrawn 30 Day Ficlets [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904581
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Come

“Well,” said Pellaeon, “this is embarrassing.”

The medical droid hummed noncommittally, its head tilting sharply to the side as it examined the space between Pellaeon’s legs once again. Its cold, metallic fingers were more than just unpleasant down there; they were downright traumatizing.

“Perhaps you should run me through the circumstances of your last shore leave, Master Pellaeon,” the droid suggested.

“Can I zip up my pants?” asked Pellaeon.

The droid shook its head. Feeling horribly exposed, Pellaeon put his hands on his hips in a futile effort to force some confidence into his mind. 

“Well, I’ve only just come back,” he said, feeling that this was rather obvious. His current problem wasn’t the sort you could acquire aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer. “I was on Dal-Duona for, ah…”

“Sexual purposes, Master Pellaeon?” the droid guessed. “That explains a lot.”

Pellaeon huffed, but he couldn’t deny it. He stared staunchly into the corner of the room.

“Your partner wasn’t human, I assume,” the droid said.

“No, indeed not,” said Pellaeon, some heat leaking into his cheeks. He shifted uncomfortably, spreading his legs a little wider to make room for the burden currently weighing him down. 

“Species?” asked the droid.

“Ah, unclear,” said Pellaeon.

“You’ll have to describe it, then,” said the droid matter-of-factly. It swabbed Pellaeon’s genitals and processed the sample, but didn’t share the results — which struck Pellaeon as rather a bad sign.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality, yes?” Pellaeon asked. “You can’t tell anyone anything about what I say here, can you?”

The droid straightened up, looking somehow offended at the suggestion. “No, sir, of course not. It’s in my programming.”

“Even my commanding officer?” Pellaeon checked.

This time, there was a long silence.

“If Grand Admiral Thrawn requests your medical records,” said the droid stiffly, “he is of course permitted to see them. But, sir, he has never requested your medical records _before_ now, so I see no reason—”

“If I get injured in battle,” Pellaeon pressed, “and he requests to see my records then, will he have access to everything, or just the most recent injury?”

The droid seemed to be calibrating. “The most recent injury only, sir.”

“Alright.” Pellaeon took a deep breath. “Well, it was a blue-skinned alien. Humanoid, male. A Wroonian, I think, but I didn’t ask.”

The droid touched Pellaeon’s genitals again, forcing a grimace onto Pellaeon’s face. “And when did symptoms begin to occur?” it asked.

“Ah....” Pellaeon hesitated, shifting uncomfortably beneath the droid’s touch. “Well, around the same time I got back.”

“Describe it for me.”

“Well, it started out feeling … er, rather like an erection,” Pellaeon said, telling himself fiercely that there was no reason to blush around a droid. “I excused myself to my quarters to … inspect the area. And I found the size and shape of my penis had changed to…”

He gestured wordlessly to the organ between his legs, which had been a penis this morning and was now a tentacle.

“Hm,” the droid said. “A most peculiar STD, if I do say so myself, sir.”

“Yes, thank you for that analysis,” said Pellaeon. He glanced quickly at the tentacle and then forced his eyes away again. “What’s the treatment? What can you do to help?”

The droid tapped the tentacle with a tongue depressor, and to Pellaeon’s mortification, his tentacle jerked reflexively and then wrapped around the little stick of wood, snapping it in two. 

“I would advise you not to have intercourse, first and foremost,” the droid said. “Did your alien partner himself have a tentacle, sir?”

Pellaeon squirmed a little and then, although the droid hadn’t given him express permission to, pulled up his uniform trousers and buckled them at once. “Yes,” he said, face flushed. “I assumed all Wroonians were like that.”

“Next time, do your research first,” the droid said. It wheeled over to a cabinet full of chilled ointments and selected one, tossing it across the examination table to Pellaeon. “Apply twice daily, sir. Come to me at once if you experience a rash. Otherwise, return in a week and we’ll assess how your symptoms have changed.”

Pellaeon fumbled with the little tube of gel, squinting to read the long, complex name of the medication. He glanced down and saw the tentacle moving beneath his pants — quite visible, and very much of its own volition.

“Ah…” he started.

“And I will write you a sick-in-quarters chit,” the droid said, eyeing Pellaeon’s unsettlingly mobile erection.

“Thank you,” Pellaeon said.

* * *

The ointment didn’t help, and neither did the next ointment after that, or the pills the droid prescribed when it realized lotions weren’t going to work. And now, Pellaeon thought, lying in bed with his prehensile dick stuffed firmly into his pants, he was running out of options.

He was coming close to three weeks on SIQ, and Thrawn had been comming him at least twice a day for the past two weeks of it, pressing more and more insistently to find out if Pellaeon was going to return to work soon. Well, perhaps that was a bit of a harsh interpretation — at least half the time, Pellaeon got the impression that Thrawn was calling mostly to check up on him, using work as a thin excuse. 

But still, Pellaeon was the captain of the Chimaera, and he couldn’t get away with hiding in bed for much longer. He contemplated asking the quartermaster to search up a templet for a cock sleeve — a very long, disconcertingly-shaped cock sleeve — to keep his tentacle from misbehaving on-shift, and then decided he’d rather die. 

He was still ruminating over it when the access bell for his door chimed. Pellaeon sat straight up, heart pounding, and tried to figure out who was calling and what excuse he would use to send them away — but a moment later, his door was opening of its own volition and—

Oh, heavens above. Grand Admiral Thrawn was entering his quarters. 

“Sir,” said Pellaeon, sitting up at once — and piling his blanket in his lap.

“Captain,” said Thrawn, letting the door close behind him. He paused in the doorway, glancing around Pellaeon’s brightly-lit quarters before narrowing his eyes at Pellaeon himself. “You look well. I trust you are not contagious?”

Pellaeon winced a little at that. “Ah, no, sir. That is, it’s not likely, sir. I mean—” Flustered, he gestured for Thrawn to take a seat in a nearby chair. “No, sir,” he said again. “Not contagious.”

Thrawn approached the bed but did not sit, studying Pellaeon’s face from where he stood. “You are not feverish,” he noted. Pellaeon grimaced.

“If you want the full run-down, sir, you’re free to read my medical report,” he said, perhaps a bit grumpily. Thrawn considered this for a moment and finally sat down, crossing his legs. 

“You picked up a virus of some sort on your last shore leave,” he guessed. 

“Of some sort,” Pellaeon agreed, trying not to scowl. There was a pause; Thrawn seemed to recalibrate.

“The bridge crew misses your presence,” he said, delivering the news with the same crisp tones he might use to give orders mid-battle. “Do you think you will be in good health soon?”

Pellaeon only shook his head and shrugged, not sure whether he felt more embarrassed or irritated that Thrawn wouldn’t go away. There was another long pause, during which Thrawn’s eyes shifted down toward Pellaeon’s lap and Pellaeon — though he was certain Thrawn couldn’t see anything — folded his hands over the tentacle and prayed it wouldn’t pick a time like this to misbehave. 

“You know,” said Thrawn, casually scanning the room, “I’ve been to Dal-Duona myself. It’s quite easy to fall ill there.”

Oh, no. This couldn’t be happening. Thrawn couldn’t _possibly_ be talking to him about STDs.

“Some of the human workers there,” said Thrawn, studiously avoiding Pellaeon’s eyes, “are carriers of all manner of disease.”

Oh, _God_ , no. Pellaeon felt like he might be ill.

“You read my file?” he asked through numb lips.

Thrawn cast him a quick, defensive look. “You’ve been ill for three weeks, Gilad,” he said. “At that point, as your commanding officer, I’m required to either read your file or start planning a memorial service.”

Pellaeon hid his face in his hands with a dramatic groan. In the ensuing silence, he could practically feel Thrawn studying him.

“You don’t mind if I take a look?” asked Thrawn mildly. “I’ve never seen a human with tentacles before.”

“ _Yes_ , I mind,” Pellaeon snapped. He looked up in time to see Thrawn innocently averting his eyes. “Did you come here just to tease, then?” Pellaeon asked. “Because clearly, you aren’t here to help.”

Thrawn glanced back at him, his face unreadable. “Have you figured out how to make yourself come?” he asked.

His tone was mild and disinterested. It was so at odds with his words — and so strange to hear those words coming from Grand Admiral Thrawn’s mouth — that for a moment, Pellaeon couldn’t process what he’d said.

“I … beg your pardon?” he asked eventually.

Gesturing toward Pellaeon’s lap, Thrawn repeated, “It’s called G.I.D. where I come from. The full name translates roughly to ‘catch and release disease.’ You’ve caught the virus; now you have to release it. Simple as that.”

He peered at Pellaeon to see if he understood and then made an absolutely mortifying masturbation gesture with his right hand. 

“It’s a _tentacle_ ,” said Pellaeon, voice strangled. “I hardly think—”

“It works,” said Thrawn, voice clipped. “Trust me.” Then, when Pellaeon only stared at him with narrow eyes, Thrawn stood and smoothed out the front of his tunic.

“Comm me when you’re done,” he said. “I have three weeks of reports to go through with you.”

* * *

Of course, because Thrawn had to be a smug bastard who was right about everything, it turned out that simply stroking the tentacle did, in fact, make it go away. After a fashion. It did grow a little first — and do some exploring of its own — and ooze a disgusting greenish-blue slime all over Pellaeon’s bed sheets before making him see stars from potentially the best solo orgasm of his life — but it went away.

He washed himself off, staring down at his normal, non-tentacle junk in relief, and then reluctantly commed Thrawn.

He was fully dressed by the time the Grand Admiral returned, a stack of datacards in his hand.

“About this blue Wroonian on Dal-Duono,” Thrawn said. 


End file.
